


Re: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

by tiredbard



Series: Re-Writing of H.J.P. [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Canon Rewrite, I got mad at jk rowling and started rewriting the whole series and now I'm too deep in to give up, lets remove some garbage fatphobia and stereotyping and internalized bs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28861893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredbard/pseuds/tiredbard
Summary: Alt title: The Re-Writing of one Harry James Potter - Year OneStarted in June of 2020, born of a queer Harry Potter fan angry and finally driven to action.  The story will be overhauled, and I am doing my best to properly research and adjust elements as needed.  This is primarily a personal project, done for my own delight, but I thought I might as well share it.Welcome back to the wizarding world.
Series: Re-Writing of H.J.P. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2116524
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	1. The Boy Who Lived

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of #4 Privet Drive were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a sturdy and intimidatingly built man, despite being rather shorter than average, his thick mustache made up the difference. Mr. Dursley’s wife, Petunia spent most of her days wrangling their young son, Dudley, and spying on the neighbors for a little excitement. The Dursley’s, in their own opinion, had everything they could ever want. But they also had a secret.

Not a thought was spared for Petunia’s sister, Lily Potter, and her family, who had long been cut off from contact with the Dursley household. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley shuddered to think what gossip would fly about them if Lily, her husband, and their son were to appear on Privet Drive. They were a strange and different sort, not at all like Petunia and Vernon, and their son was _nothing_ like Dudley. Because of this, Petunia Dursley spent most of her time pretending that she did not _have_ a sister, and so far as Vernon knew they had not so much as spoken to each other in many years.

Until October 31st, 1981.

The day had begun as innocent and normal as any other, Mr. Dursley had woken at quarter to seven, chosen the dullest tie from his collection, and set about preparing for work. The sky was overcast and dull, not quite threatening the snow of the coming winter, but any rain would leave one frozen down to the bone. Nothing about the weather, nor Vernon Dursley’s tie, would suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country.

Breakfast proceeded as normal, with Petunia sharing the latest gossip she had heard from their neighbor Mrs. Fig, while she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair. Vernon pretended to listen with interest until about half-past eight, when he picked up his briefcase and gave Petunia a quick kiss. He also tried to kiss Dudley, but after seeing the sheer amount of porridge in which he was covered, thought better of it and opted for a ruffle of his wispy hair.

“Little tyke.” Vernon chuckled as he made his way out the door.

As he was pulling out of Privet Drive, he noticed a cat sitting stiffly on top of the brickwork containing a map of the small suburb. This struck Mr. Dursley as peculiar, he had never seen a cat sit so very still, it almost looked fake. However, when he looked back over his shoulder after passing by the map, the cat was gone.

Must have run off to chase a bird, he thought to himself. After all, cats couldn’t read maps.

Mr. Dursley shook his head and put the thought from his mind.

On the drive into town, he began to muse on the large order of drills he was hoping to close on that day, the order had been up in the air for quite some time, and it would be good to put it behind him. These thoughts did not occupy him for long however, as he reached the edge of town and settled into the usual traffic jam of the work day, he couldn’t help but notice the amount of strangely dressed people walking about.

People in cloaks.

Mr. Dursley was not in the interest of tolerating funny clothes- the way young people dressed today! Undoubtedly this was some new fashion craze, absolutely ridiculous. He tapped idly at the steering wheel as he tried to avert his eyes from the cloaks, but no matter where he looked there seemed to be another group! They seemed to huddle together for whispers, as though all of them together were conspiring on something.

Upon closer inspection, Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that some of these people weren’t even young! A few of them looked to be older than he was himself, dressed in emerald greens and vibrant purples! The nerve!

A thought occurred to Mr. Dursley then that allowed him to relax slightly, surly this muse be some kind of gimmick, a stunt to raise money or awareness for- something. That must be it.

Regardless, it was only a few more minutes before he arrived at the Grunnings lot, which returned his mind to the drill order. Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window of his office, allowing what little sun filtered through the grey sky to warm the room without putting spots in his eyes. Being on the ninth floor, it also meant there was no opportunity to see more of those cloaked weirdos. Having his back turned also meant he did not see the countless owls swooping by.

No, Mr. Dursley had a perfectly normal, owl free morning.

He made important phone calls, shouted at a few people, wrote out passive aggressive apology notes for shouting which he would pass to the secretaries, who would deliver them to the correct people. The large drill order closed without a hitch, and on that high note he left for lunch.

He was in such a good mood in fact, he thought to stretch his legs and treat himself to something sweet from the bakery across the road. He’d forgotten all about the strangeness of the morning until he passed by a group of them just before reaching the bakery. He gave them a nasty look and turned away, unsure why they made him feel so uneasy. Like the rest, they were whispering excitedly.

While in the bakery, it occurred to him that he didn’t see a single collection tin or bucket in their hands.

It was as he passed them on his return, a bag containing a large doughnut for himself and one of the small tri-color cake slices he knew Petunia was fond of, clutched in one hand. Despite trying to ignore them, he caught a few words as he hurried on his way.

“The Potters, I heard, yes. Their son, Harry.”

Mr. Dursley stopped dead, feeling suddenly as though icy water had been tipped over his head. For a moment, he nearly possessed himself to turn back and ask the group to explain- but no, he thought better of it. Dashing back across the road, he hurried up to his office, snapping at his secretary that he was not to be disturbed. He had nearly finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver down and sunk into his plush chair, thinking. He was being stupid, that was all. Potter wasn’t an uncommon name, come to think of it there were probably lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. On that point, he wasn’t even sure his nephew _was_ called Harry, never having even met the boy. Perhaps it was Harvey, or even Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley over a vague feeling. She always got so upset when they discussed her sister, and Mr. Dursley couldn’t blame her- if _his_ sister was like that- but all the same, he couldn’t shake that feeling of unease.

The rest of his day passed into a haze, and when he left the building at 5 o’clock, he collided with a small man just outside in the street.

“Sorry,” He huffed, as the tiny old man stumbled back, nearly falling. In his current daze, it was a moment before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a cloak of deep violet. He also didn’t seem upset at having been nearly knocked over.

Quite the opposite, he grinned widely and said in a voice much squeakier than Mr. Dursley expected of him, “Don’t be sorry, good sir! Nothing could upset me today! Celebrate, rejoice, for You-Know-Who has been vanquished at last! Even a muggle like yourself should be celebrating, this happy day!” and in a rush, the old man hugged Mr. Dursley and then hurried off.

Stunned, Mr. Dursley just stood there in the middle of the pavement for some time. A complete stranger had hugged him, and called him a- a _muggle?_ Whatever that was. It rattled him even further. He hurried back to the car, and drove home hoping desperately that he was imagining things.

As he pulled into his driveway, he noticed with a start that the tabby cat he had seen this morning was now sitting atop his garden wall! He was sure it was the same one, it was just as still and stiff as the one from the morning.

“Shoo!” Mr. Dursley snapped as he made his way up the walk, but the cat didn’t move. It just stared back at him, in a way that Mr. Dursley almost thought was _stern_. Could cats look stern?

Perhaps he could ask Mrs. Fig the next time she stopped by, the woman was always taking in strays.

Trying to pull himself together, Mr. Dursley let himself inside, and began to consider bringing up the days events with his wife once more. But Mrs. Dursley had had such a nice, normal day that he couldn’t do it. Over dinner she talked all about how the woman down the street was having problems with her daughter sneaking out, and how Dudley had learned a new word (“Shan’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to remember what his normal behavior looked like.

When Dudley had been put down to bed, he went to the living room just for the evening news.

“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported highly unusual behavior in the nations owl population. Though owls are normally nocturnal, there have been hundreds of sightings of birds flying in all directions since sunrise. Experts are currently unable to offer an explanation as to why owls have suddenly changed their sleeping patterns.” The newscaster allowed himself a small grin and a chuckle before continuing “Most mysterious. Now over to James McGriffin, for the weather. Any more owls in the forecast tonight, Jim?”

“I don’t know about that,” said the weatherman “but viewers as far as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have all been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain we promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have begun celebrating Bonfire Night early— it’s not until next week folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.”

Mr. Dursley sat in his armchair, possessed again of that cold water feeling from lunchtime. Shooting stars? Owls in daylight? People in cloaks everywhere... and that whisper. That whisper about the Potters.

Mrs. Dursley chose that moment to come into the living room carrying two cups of tea and the small slice of cake Vernon had bought that afternoon.

It was no good.

He had to say something.

“Er—” he cleared his throat rather nervously “-Petunia, dear- you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?” As expected, Mrs. Dursley’s demeanor changed instantly, her lips had drawn tight together and the hand still holding her own teacup went a bit lighter at the knuckles.

“No,” she said in a measured tone, as though trying to gauge why Vernon was asking. “Why?”

“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled, “Owls, shooting stars... and- there were a lot of funny people in town today, people in cloaks...”

“And?” snapped Mrs. Dursley.

“Well, I just thought it was, something to do with... you know... _her_ crowd.”

Mrs. Dursley just sipped her tea, still looking drawn all too tight. Mr. Dursley wondered if he dared bring up the mention of the Potters he had heard at lunch time.

“Er- I heard some of those people whispering, about some people called the Potters- common name of course, but, wasn’t their son called Harold or something?”

“Harry,” said Mrs. Dursley stiffly “nasty, common name, if you ask me.”

Mr. Dursley’s heart began to sink horribly as he realized it _must_ be the same people. “I heard-”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Vernon.” Mrs. Dursley said with such a cold finality that he didn’t dare press the subject. The pair finished their tea in silence and went upstairs to bed.

While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley peered out the bedroom window into the street, seeing to his mounting irritation that the cat was still perched on his garden wall. Staring out at the street, unmoving.

Was he simply imagining things?

Could there be another Potter family, with a son named Harry?

If something got out- if it became common knowledge that they were related to people like _that_ \- well, he didn’t think he could bear it.

At the very least, it was a comfort to know that the Potters would not come to them in need. No, Petunia’s sister knew very well what she and Vernon thought of _their sort_. No matter what was going on, it couldn’t involve them.

How very wrong he was.

~*~

While the Dursleys were drifting off into uneasy sleep, the cat on their garden wall maintained an alert watch over the whole of Privet Drive. It didn’t move, nor jump at car doors slamming in the night, or the haunting hoots of owls passing overhead. In fact, it was not until very near midnight that the cat moved at all.

A man had appeared on the corner of Privet Drive, suddenly and silently as though he’d materialized from the very air. The cat’s tail twitched, and it dismounted gracefully from the wall, eyes narrowing at the newcomer.

No man such as this had ever been seen on Privet Drive.

He was tall, thin, and very old, with silver hair and beard both long enough to tuck into the belt that circled his robes. A deep wine-purple cloak swept the ground around his feet, and high heeled buckled boots. His eyes were a bright piercing blue that seemed to sparkle somewhat behind half-moon spectacles, and his nose was long and very crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice.

This was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore did not give any indication that he realized his arrival on Privet Drive would be far from welcome had any of its inhabitants been awake. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, but he did realize he was being watched, because he looked up just as the cat came within a few feet of where he stood.

The sight of this cat seemed to amuse him somewhat, he chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.” Still digging through his pocket, eventually he came up with a silver cigarette lighter. Flicking it open, he held it up in the air and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a tiny pop. Clicking it again— the next lamp flickered out, a small orb of light flying into the open top of the lighter.

Twelve times he did this, until the only light left in the street seemed to be that which was reflecting in the cat’s eyes as it watched him. If anyone were to look outside, even keen-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see what was happening in the street.

Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back into his pocket, and set off down the street towards number four, the cat following at his heels. Once he had reached the garden wall where the cat had spent most of its day, he stopped, and turned to look at the tabby- but it had gone.

Instead he was smiling at a somewhat severe looking woman, who’s square spectacles matched the markings the cat had had around its eyes. “Fancy seeing you here, Minerva.”

She too, was wearing a cloak, this one of emerald green. Her black hair was drawn into a bun at the base of her neck, and she looked distinctly ruffled. “How did you know it was me?” she asked.

“My dear Professor, never in my life have I seen a cat sit so stiffly.”

“So you were watching then?”

“From just after about eleven, yes.”

“You would be stiff if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” Said Minerva McGonagall.

“All day? When you could have celebrated? I must have passed a dozen feasts on my way here.”

McGonagall scoffed “Oh yes, everyone is _celebrating_ ,” she said impatiently. “You’d think they would be a bit more careful- even the Muggles have noticed something is going on. It was on their news-” She jerked her head towards the Dursley’s dark windows. “I heard it- flocks of owls... shooting stars... they’re not stupid, and things like that- the stars down in Kent- I’ll bet those were Dedalus Diggle. Never did have much sense, that one.”

“You cannot blame them,” said Dumbledore gently, still smiling “We’ve had precious little worth celebrating for over a decade.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Said McGonagall, though she sounded more resigned now. “That’s no reason to become careless- people are swapping rumors in the streets without even bothering to dress in Muggle clothing. A fine thing it would be, if on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last- the Muggles find out about magic and start another crusade.” She paused a moment, as though gathering herself “I suppose he really has gone, Albus?”

“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?”

“A what?”

“A Muggle sweet I’ve grown rather fond of.”

“No, thank you,” said McGonagall coldly, as though she thought this was not the moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone-”

“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this nonsense about ‘You-Know-Who’— for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.”

McGonagall did not seem to appreciate this suggestion, nevertheless Dumbledore did not notice, as he was busy unsticking two lemon drops. “It all gets so confusing, if we keep saying You-Know-Who, his fear lives on. I’ve never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s name.”

“I know you haven’t,” said McGonagall exasperatedly “But everyone knows that You- that _Voldemort_ , was frightened of you.”

“Flatterer.” Dumbledore replied “Voldemort had powers I will never have.”

“Only because you’re too- well— _noble_ to use them.”

“You are lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.”

McGonagall shot Dumbledore a sharp look and said “The owls and shooting stars are nothing next to the rumors flying around. You must know what everyone is saying- about why Voldemort has disappeared and what finally stopped him?”

It seemed that McGonagall had reached the point she had been most anxious to discuss, perhaps the real reason she had been waiting out in the cold all day. For neither as a cat, nor as a woman, had she ever fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing gaze as she did now. It was plain that whatever the rumors were, she had deigned not to believe a word until Dumbledore confirmed it for her.

Dumbledore, however, was busy choosing another lemon drop, and did not answer.

“What they’re saying-” She continued, “-is that last night- Voldemort turned up in Godric’s Hollow. That he went to find the Potters- and that Lily and James are—well- that they’re dead.”

As McGonagall spoke, Dumbledore bowed his head, lemon drops forgotten.

“No-” McGonagall gasped “Lily and James... I can’t- I didn’t _want_ to believe it- _Oh_ , Albus...”

Dumbledore reached out and patted her gently on the shoulder “I know...” He said heavily. “I would guess then, that you have heard the other news?”

McGonagall nodded, and her voice trembled as she went on. “That he tried to kill the Potter’s son as well, Harry. But— he couldn’t. No one seems to know why, or how, but that when he tried to kill Harry Potter, Voldemort’s powers failed him- broke- and that’s why he’s gone.”

Dumbledore nodded glumly, “Indeed.”

“It- it’s _true_?” McGonagall asked “After _everything_ he’s done- all the people he’s killed- a little boy just- Harry was barely more than one... How in Godric’s name did that boy survive?”

“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “We may never know for sure.”

McGonagall pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, collecting herself before saying “I assume you have some _theories_ , Albus?”

“I do, but that is a conversation for a safer location, Minerva.” Dumbledore gave a great sniff and pulled a golden watch from his pocket. The watch did not seem to have numbers, but twelve hands and a collection of tiny planets circling the edge of the face. It must have made sense to him, though, because as he looked at it he sighed and said, “Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I would be here?”

“Yes,” Said McGonagall. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me _why_ you’re here, of all places?”

“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. The only family he has left now.”

McGonagall startled at this, looking back at number four in horror. “You don’t mean— you can’t _possibly_ mean the people who live here?” she cried “Albus you can’t- I’ve been watching them all day. There are not two people in the _world_ less like us. Harry Potter- come and live here! Of all places?”

“It’s the best place for him.” said Dumbledore firmly. “Petunia will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older- I’ve written her a letter.”

“A _letter_?” Repeated McGonagall indignantly, leaning back against the garden wall. “Really, you think you can explain all this in a _letter_? Surely you must remember how Lily spoke of her sister- why the number of times I had her in my office upset about-”

“Minerva.” Dumbledore said gently,

“-these people will never understand him, Albus! He’ll be a living legend- I wouldn’t be surprised if today became known as _Harry Potter Day_ in the future! There will be books written— every child in our world will know his name!”

“ _Exactly_ ,” said Dumbledore, looking very serious from behind his half-moon spectacles. “It would be enough to turn any child’s head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he may not remember! Can’t you see how much better off he would be, growing up away from all that before he was ready to take it?”

McGonagall looked very ready to protest that idea, but when Dumbledore’s expression darkened further still, she changed her mind. “I suppose, you’re right about that. But how is the boy getting here?”

“Hagrid is bringing him.”

“You think it wise? Trusting Hagrid with something as important as this?”

“I would trust Rubeus Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore.

“Of course— of course, he is trustworthy and his heart is always in the right place- but you cannot pretend he isn’t carele— what was that?”

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence and stillness of the night. It grew louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of headlights. It swelled to a roar as they both looked up to the sky— and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them. The motorcycle itself was huge- much larger than normal, but it was nothing to the man astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man, and very wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so _wild_ , long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid much of his face. His hands were easily the size of trash can lids, and his feet and leather books akin to old tree stumps. In his muscular arms, he was holding a bundle of blankets.

“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. Where on earth did you get that motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir.” said Hagrid, climbing carefully off the bike as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.”

“No problems, were there?”

“No, sir— the house was almost destroyed, but I got him out alright before the Muggles started swarmin’ about. He fell asleep as we were over Bristol.”

Dumbledore and McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, only his face visible, was a baby boy sound asleep. Under unruly tufts of jet black hair, just visible on his forehead, there was a curiously shaped cut- like a bolt of lightning.

“Is that where-?” whispered McGonagall.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.”

“Couldn’t you do something about it, sir?” Hagrid asked “Hate to see him all cut up.”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself just above my left knee- a perfect map of the London Underground.” It was unclear whether or not Dumbledore was making a joke, but neither Hagrid nor McGonagall pressed on it. “Well— it’s time, give him here, Hagrid— we’d best get this over with.”

Dumbledore took Harry in his arms and turned toward the Dursley’s house.

“Could- could I say goodbye to him, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his great shaggy head over Harry and gave him what was probably a very scratchy kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a sorrowful howl, as though he were a wounded dog.

“Hush,” whispered McGonagall, putting an arm on Hagrid’s forearm, which was the highest she could reach “you’ll wake the Muggles, Hagrid.”

“S-sorry,” cried Hagrid, taking out a large, spotty handkerchief and burying his face in it. “I jus’ can’t stand it! Lily an’ James dead— an’ poor Harry of to live with Muggles-”

“I know, I know, it’s all very sad. But you must get a grip on yourself or we’ll wake the whole street.” McGonagall said as Dumbledore stepped toward the front door.

He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, and removed both a letter and his wand from within his cloak. The letter was tucked into Harry’s blankets, and with the wand, Dumbledore cast a spell that would keep Harry warm, dry, and sleeping peacefully until he was found. Satisfied, he returned to the other two, and for a moment they all stood and watched the little bundle. Hagrid still crying outright, McGonagall blinking furiously to hold back tears of her own, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes had gone out, replaced with gently welling liquid.

“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no more business here, we ought to join in the celebrations.”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid, still muffled by the handkerchief. “I ought to take Sirius his bike back. Night, Professor McGonagall— Professor Dumbledore.” wiping his still streaming eyes once more, Hagrid swung himself back onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine to life. With a roar, it rose into the air and vanished off into the night.

“I shall see you soon, I expect, Minerva.” said Dumbledore, nodding to her.

McGonagall nodded, but did not seem much like she had words left to say.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. Once on the corner, he stopped and took out the Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and twelve balls of light sped back to their lamps, illuminating Privet Drive in it’s usual orange glow. As he turned back, he caught the tail of a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could still see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

“Good luck, Harry.” he murmured.

He turned sharply on his heel, and with a _crack_ and the swish of his cloak, Albus Dumbledore was gone. A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the pitch dark sky. It was the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets, without waking up. One small hand curled around the letter, and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was now famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours by Petunia Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being curiously prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley.

He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people were gathering in secret all over the country, holding up their glasses and goblets and saying in hushed voices:

“To Harry Potter— the boy who lived!”


	2. Vanishing Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again- a re-write out of queer spite.  
> Only minimal edits and changes in the beginning.  
> Enjoy <3

The ten years that had passed since the Dursleys had woken to find their nephew on the front step had not been easy- but you would not have known it from the look of Privet Drive, which had hardly changed at all.

The sun rose on the same cookie cutter front gardens, lit the same brass number 4 on the Dursleys’ front door; it crept through the living room, which where all the furniture was as it had been that fateful night. Only the photographs above the fireplace mantle showed the passing of time.

Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of a chubby blond baby in a variety of colored bonnets— but Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby. The photos now showed a boy riding his first bicycle, standing on top of a carousel seat at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, and many _many_ photos being hugged and kissed by his mother. The photos here held no sign at all that there was another child living in the house, too.

Despite this, Harry Potter was still definitely there. Asleep for the moment, though not for long.

His Aunt Petunia was awake, and it was her shout through the door that made the first sound of the day. “Up! Get up!”

Harry woke with a start.

His aunt rapped the door before another harsh call of “Up!” was issued.

Harry heard hear walking away toward the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of a heavy frying pan being placed on the stove. With a groan, he rolled onto his back and tried to hold on to the remnants of the dream he’d been having. It had been a good one this time- there had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny feeling it was one of the dreams he’d had before, but he seldom remembered them long enough to keep track.

His aunt was back outside the door before he even had time to sit up. “Are you up yet?” she demanded.

“Nearly,” said Harry, trying to keep any residual sleepiness out of his tone.

“Quickly, I want you to look after the bacon- and don’t you _dare_ let it burn. I want everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.”

Harry groaned again.

“What did you say?” His aunt snapped.

“Nothing, nothing...” Right. Dudley’s birthday. Harry wondered how he could have forgotten, with how often Dudley spent counting down to it.

He got slowly out of bed and began the hunt for socks. He found a pair under his bed, pulling them on after removing a small spider. Harry was used to spiders, as they seemed to be the previous and constant occupants of the cupboard under the stairs, and that was where he slept.

Once dressed, he made his way down the hall into the kitchen. The table was nearly hidden underneath all Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked from the shape of things, that Dudley had gotten the new computer he’d wanted- as well as a second television and a racing bike. Why Dudley would want a racing bike was a complete mystery to Harry, as he already had a perfectly good bike gathering dust in the garage. The only times Harry had seen Dudley ride the thing were when he and his friends needed to chase someone down— leading to one of Dudley’s favourite activities, using smaller children as punching bags.

Dudley’s favourite punching bag was Harry, but even with the bikes he couldn’t often catch him. Harry didn’t look it, but he was very fast. Perhaps it was due to living in a dark cupboard for his whole life, but Harry had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and skinnier next to Dudley, who had inherited his father’s bulkier frame and mother’s height.

Harry had a sharp face- likely due to how thin he was- knobbly knees, black fluffy hair, and bright green eyes. He wore round wire frame glasses held together by a lot of scotch tape from all the times he’d been punched in the nose. The only thing Harry truly liked about his appearance was a very thin arcing scar on his forehead, shaped like a bolt of lightning. He’d had it as long as he could remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking Aunt Petunia was how he’d gotten it.

“In the accident when your parents died,” she had said. “And don’t ask questions.”

Don’t ask questions- that was the first and most important rule of a quiet life with the Dursleys.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen just as Harry was flipping over the bacon. “Comb your hair!” He barked in greeting. Roughly once a week, Uncle Vernon would look up from his morning paper and announce that Harry needed another haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts than the rest of the children he knew combined, but it made no difference- his hair simply grew all over the place.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with Aunt Petunia. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon, he had a round pink face, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay quite flat against his head. Aunt Petunia liked to say that Dudley looked like a baby angel— Harry didn’t agree with this description- but neither really did Dudley, who tried his best to make sure none of his friends were ever around to hear it voiced.

Harry set the table with all the plates of egg and bacon, which was difficult with all the presents in the way.

Dudley was busy counting the presents, and as he finished his face fell. “Thirty-six” he mumbled, looking up at his mother and father. “That’s two less than last year.”

“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, there, it’s under this big one from Mummy and Daddy.”

“All right- thirty-seven then.” said Dudley, going somewhat red in the face. Harry, knowing this look, sensed a tantrum coming on and began wolfing down his bacon and eggs as quickly as possible. Much preferring to be sick than starving.

Aunt Petunia had obviously sensed the danger as well, because she quickly added, “We’re going to buy another two presents while we’re out today. How does that sound, popkin?”

Dudley thought for a moment, face still scrunched and red. “Thirty- ... thirty- _nine_ , then. That’s all right.”

With that, the crises had been averted, and Dudley reached for the nearest gift.

Uncle Vernon chuckled and said, “Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like his father. ‘Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair, who shook his head.

At that moment the telephone rang, and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a camcorder, an RC airplane, roughly a dozen computer games, and a VCR. By the time Aunt Petunia returned he was busy ripping the paper off a thick gold wristwatch.

“Bad news, Vernon,” Aunt Petunia said, looking angry and worried. “Mrs. Fig’s broken her leg, she can’t take him...” she gave Harry a brief glance.

Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror, his presents forgotten, but Harry’s heart leapt. Every year on Dudley’s birthday, he got to go out with a friend to adventure parks, hamburger joints, or the movies. Every year, Harry was left behind with the neighbor Mrs. Fig. She was an old lady from a few houses down, and Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of boiling cabbage, and Mrs. Fig made him look at photos of every cat she’d ever owned.

“Now what?” said Aunt Petunia, glaring at Harry as though it was somehow his fault about Mrs. Fig’s leg. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry for her, but it wasn’t easy when he knew it would now be a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Tufty, or Mr. Paws again.

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Vernon. Marge hates the boy-” The Dursley’s had a bad habit of speaking about Harry as though he wasn’t there. Or perhaps, more accurately, as though he was something very nasty that couldn’t understand them.

“What about your friend- what’s-her-name-... Yvonne?”

“On vacation in Majorca,” Aunt Petunia sighed.

“You could just leave me here?” Harry threw out hopefully. If they left him, he’d be able to watch what he wanted on television- maybe even have a go on Dudley’s old computer...

Aunt Petunia looked as though she’d swallowed a lemon. “And come back to the house a wreck? I don’t think so.”

“I won’t blow up the house,” said Harry quietly, but they weren’t listening.

“I suppose we could take him with us,” said Aunt Petunia slowly, “... and leave him in the car- it’s not dreadfully hot out.”

“That car’s _new_ , he’s not sitting in it alone.” Snapped uncle Vernon.

It was then that Dudley began to cry loudly. Not that he was _really_ crying, but if he screwed his face up and wailed loud enough, he had learned over the years that it would get him near anything from his mother.

“Dinky Duddydums, don’t cry- Mummy won’t let him spoil your day-” she cried, moving back around the pile of gifts to hug him.

“I- I don’t _want-_ h-him to come!” Dudley sniffled between huge pretend sobs. “He’ll sp-spoil _everything!_ ”

Just then- the doorbell rang.

“Oh, goodness, they’re here!” said Aunt Petunia frantically— as only moments later, she was letting Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss, and his mother inside. Piers was a skinny boy with pinched features that make him seem to be almost permanently scowling. He was normally the one to hold people’s arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them.

Dudley had stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour and much discussion later, Harry was sitting in the back of the Dursleys’ car with Piers and Dudley, scarcely able to believe his luck. He was on his way to the zoo for the first time in his life! His aunt and uncle hadn’t been able to think of any other solution.

Before they’d left, Uncle Vernon had pulled Harry aside.

“I’m warning you now, boy... Any _funny_ business, anything at all— and you’ll be in your cupboard from now until Christmas.”

This close, his large mustache bristling and a vein popping in his temple, all Harry could do was nod furiously in agreement. “I’m not going to do anything— honestly...”

Of course, Uncle Vernon didn’t believe him. No one ever did. That was the problem- strange things often happened around Harry and it was never any good telling the Dursleys he didn’t make them happen. Once, Aunt Petunia had gotten so frustrated with Harry coming back from the barbers as though he hadn’t been at all, that she had taken the kitchen shears to his hair and cut it so short he was nearly bald. All save for his bangs, which she’d left “to hide that horrid scar.”

Dudley had laughed himself breathless at Harry, who spent the night barely sleeping as he thought about school the next day- where he was already laughed at for ill-fitting clothes and broken glasses. But when the next morning came around, he woke to find his hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia sheared it off. He’d spend a week in his cupboard for this, even though he tried his best to explain that he had no reason or answer for how it had grown back.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a terrible old sweater of Dudley’s for a holiday gathering. It was an awful brown with bright orange puffballs. The harder she tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it may have fit a doll or a hand puppet, but certainly not Harry. Aunt Petunia decided it must have shrunk in the wash without her noticing, and to his relief, Harry wasn’t punished.

The worst time by far had been when he was found on the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley and his gang had been chasing him as usual, when to everyone’s surprise, Harry included, there he was sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys received an angry letter from the school’s headmistress, telling them that Harry had been climbing school buildings. But all Harry had tried to do- something he shouted through the locked door of his cupboard to no avail- was dive behind the big trash cans outside the kitchen doors.

Harry supposed it must have been a fluke, the wind caught him mid-jump.

Not today though- _nothing_ was going to go wrong. It was even worth being with Dudley and Piers to be spending the day outside of school, or his cupboard, or Mrs. Fig’s cabbage-smelling house.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained. He liked to complain about things, whether it was people at work, Harry, the council, the bank, Harry again. This morning he was fixated on motorcycles. “...they roar along like maniacs- young hoodlums with no regard for life.” He said as a motorcycle overtook them on the road.

“I had a dream about a motorcycle,” said Harry, suddenly remembering. “It was flying.”

Uncle Vernon hit the break harder than he meant to, and the car lurched sending everyone forward. He turned around in his seat, even more red in the face than normal and shouted “MOTORCYCLES DON’T FLY!”

Piers giggled, but Dudley had only cracked a small smile.

“I know they don’t,” said Harry. “It was only a dream.” But he was already wishing he hadn’t spoken at all. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than questions- it was anything acting in a way it shouldn’t. No matter if it was in a dream- or even a cartoon- they seemed to think it would give Harry dangerous ideas.

It was a beautiful Saturday, and the zoo was packed with people. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance, and even a cheap lemon ice pop for Harry- even though it was just because the smiling woman in the ice cream van had asked him what he wanted before they could hurry away. It wasn’t bad either, Harry thought, as they watched a gorilla scratching its head. He thought zoo animals must be quite bored, as the gorilla had a vacant look reminiscent of Dudley.

Harry had the best morning he’d had in a long time. Carefully keeping several steps behind the Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers wouldn’t fall back on their hobby of hitting them when they tired of looking at the animals. They all ate at one of the zoo restaurants, and when Dudley threw a fit because his knickerbocker glory didn’t have enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him a second one and allowed Harry to finish the first.

Harry felt, after it was all done, that he should have known it wouldn’t last.

After lunch they all went to the reptile room. It was dim and cool inside, with lit windows along all the walls. Behind glass, all kinds of lizards and snakes were making their way over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers gravitated towards the poisonous cobras and huge bone-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the building, it could have wrapped itself around Uncle Vernon’s car twice over and crush it in half. At the moment however, it didn’t seem to be in the mood, instead coiled tight and asleep.

Dudley pressed his nose to the glass and scowled, “Make it move,” he snapped, looking back at his father.

Uncle Vernon rapped on the glass, despite the sign requesting him not to, even so the snake didn’t budge.

“Do it again,” Dudley whined. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass again, but the snake snoozed on. “This is boring...” Dudley mumbled, and moved on to another window.

Harry looked into the tank and looked over the coiled snake. He wondered if perhaps it had died of boredom— no company except stupid people tapping the glass and disturbing its sleep. It was worse than his cupboard, Harry thought, where at least he had the rest of the house to visit.

Suddenly the snake opened its eyes, brown and slitted. Slowly, very slowly, it started to raise its head until it was eye level with Harry. It winked. Harry glanced around to make sure nobody was watching. When he saw that they weren’t, he looked over to the snake and winked back at it. The snake moved in a way that looked as though it was jerking its head, towards Uncle Vernon and Dudley, and then raised its eyes to the ceiling.

It seemed to give a look that said: “I get that all the time.”

“I know.” Harry murmured through the glass, though he doubted the snake could hear him. “It must be really annoying.”

The snake nodded, settling back into its coil.

“Where do you come from, anyway?” Harry asked. The snake used its tail to point at a little sign beside the glass. Harry peered at it and read: Boa Constrictor, Brazil. “Was it nice there?” It sounded nice, warm and sunny and tropical- but the snake jabbed its tail toward the sign again, prompting Harry to read further to where it said: this specimen was bred in the zoo. “Oh, I see— so you’ve never been to Brazil?” As the snake shook its head, a shout behind Harry made both of them jump.

“DUDLEY! COME AND SEE THE SNAKE! YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT IT’S DOING!”

Dudley came running back over. “Out of the way!” he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by surprise, Harry stumbled and fell on the concrete.

What came next happened so quickly that even someone who saw would not have known what happened. One second, Piers and Dudley were pressed right up against the glass- the next, they had leapt back with screams of horror. Harry sat up and scooted backwards with a gasp; the glass in front of the snake’s tank had vanished. The great boa was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering out into the room. People who noticed throughout the reptile room screamed and bolted for the exits.

As the snake slid past him, Harry could have sworn a low hissing voice said: “Brazil, here I come... _Thanks_ , amigo.”

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock. “But the glass-” He kept stuttering “Where did the glass _go_?”

The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong tea, while he apologized over and over for the mishap. Dudley and Piers could only gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the snake hadn’t done anything except hiss as it slid by, but by the time they were all back in the car, Dudley was insisting it had nearly bitten off his leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to squeeze him to death.

Worst of all, though, was Piers calming down enough to say: “Harry was talking to it, weren’t you, Harry?”

Uncle Vernon waiting until Piers had gone home before rounding on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak- all he managed was “Go— cupboard— no meals!” before collapsing into a chair and asking Aunt Petunia for a large brandy.

Harry lay in his cupboard in the dark much later, wishing he had a watch. While he wasn’t locked in, he didn’t know what time it was, and he couldn’t be sure whether the Dursleys were asleep yet. Until they all were, he couldn’t risk sneaking out to the kitchen for food. He’d lived with the Dursleys for nearly ten miserable years, as long as he could remember. Ever since the car accident that led to his parents’ death. He couldn’t remember it, nothing.

Sometimes, if he strained his memory during long hours in the dark, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light, and a burning pain on his forehead. This, he supposed, must have been the accident and resulting crash, though he couldn’t imagine what had caused all the green light.

He couldn’t remember his parents at all. His aunt never spoke about them, and he didn’t dare ask questions. There were no photos of them in the house. When Harry had been younger, he dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relative whisking him away. But it never happened.

The Dursleys were his only family. If he could call them that.

Sometimes though, he thought, or maybe hoped that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Always bizarre strangers they were. A tiny man in a bright purple top hat had bowed to him once while they were out grocery shopping. After demanding furiously if Harry knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them all from the shop without buying anything. A disheveled woman dressed in emerald green had waved happily at him once on the bus. A balding man in a long violet overcoat had actually shaken his hand only a few days before, and then hurried away without a word.

The strangest thing about all these people was how they seemed to vanish as soon as Harry tried to get a closer look. At school, Harry had nobody. Everyone knew that Dudley and his friends hated Harry Potter, with his baggy clothes and broken glasses, and nobody liked to disagree with Dudley- lest they end up on the receiving end of his and his friends fists.


	3. The Letters From No-one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, re-written out of spite- some minor changes here, moving certain things to Petunia as it always made more sense to me for her to have a strong reaction to this thing she was so jealous of and came to despise popping back up.

The weeks after the escape of the Brazilian boa marked the longest punishment Harry had ever received.

By the time he was out of his cupboard, the summer holidays had started. Dudley had already managed to break his new video camera, crash his RC plane, and the first time out on his racing bike- he’d knocked over Mrs. Fig as she crossed the street on her crutches. Harry was glad to be out of the cupboard, and eating hot food again rather than the cold scraps Aunt Petunia had been putting under the door. He was also glad to be out of school, but during the summer there was no escaping Dudley’s gang.

They visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordy were all the boys who gravitated around Dudley at school. Why they had chosen Dudley as the leader, Harry couldn’t fathom, maybe it was because he was the least likely to hold back a punch if they didn’t listen to him. Whatever it was- they were all quite happy to join Dudley in his favourite sport: Harry Hunting. This led to Harry spending as much time as he could manage out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays- where he could see one tiny ray of hope.

When September came, he would be going off to secondary school, meaning for the first time ever- he wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted to Uncle Vernon’s old private school, Smeltings. Piers was going there too. Harry, though, was going to the local public school- Stonewall High. Dudley seemed to think this was hilarious.

“They stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall,” He told Harry one morning. “Want to come upstairs and practice?”

“No, thanks.” Said Harry. “The poor toilet hasn’t ever had something as horrible as your head down it- it might be sick.” with those words, he ran, before Dudley could catch on to what he’d said.

One day in July, Harry was left with Mrs. Fig so that Aunt Petunia could take Dudley into London for school shopping. The visit wasn’t as bad as usual. It turned out Mrs. Fig had broken her leg tripping over one of her many cats, and she seemed to still be a bit sour about it. She let Harry watch television and even gave him a bit of chocolate cake that- while she said it had been a get well gift- tasted as though she’d had it for several years.

That evening the Dursley household was subjected to Dudley parading around in his brand new uniform. Smeltings’ boys wore maroon tailcoats, gaudy orange knickerbockers, and flat straw boater hats. They also carried very knobbly walking sticks, which Uncle Vernon said were used for hitting each other while the teachers backs were turned. He thought this was supposed to be good training for later life.

Both Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had said this was the proudest moment of their lives. Aunt Petunia burst into tears when she first saw Dudley all dressed up and said she couldn’t believe that was her little Duddykins- he looked so handsome and grown up.

Harry kept his mouth firmly shut, not trusting himself to speak. He thought the pain in his side might be a cracked rib or two from trying so hard not to laugh.

The next morning the house was permeated by a horrible smell- so bad it woke Harry in his cupboard. When he wandered into the kitchen for breakfast, he saw it seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags submerged in grey water.

“What’s this?” He asked Aunt Petunia.

“Your new school uniform.” she said

Harry looked into the tub again “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t realize it had to be so wet.”

“Don’t be stupid!” Snapped Aunt Petunia. “I’m dyeing some of Dudley’s old clothes grey for you. It’ll look just like everyone else’s when I’m finished.”

Harry seriously doubted that, but knew it was best not to argue. He sat down at the table and tried not to think about his first day of school- now marred by the idea of wearing what would look like bits of old elephant skin...

Dudley and Uncle Vernon both came in, noses wrinkled at the smell from the tub. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual, and Dudley banged his walking stick- which he now carried everywhere- on the table. There was a faint click from the mail slot, and the flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the mail, Dudley.” said Uncle Vernon from behind the paper.

“Make Harry get it.” Dudley replied, smacking his stick on the leg of the table now.

“Get the mail, Harry.”

“Make Dudley get it.” Harry tried.

“Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”

Harry dodged around the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that was probably a bill, and—

-and a letter for Harry.

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart jumping into his throat.

No one, ever, not in his whole life, had written to him.

There was no one who would. He had no friends, no other relatives, he didn’t even have a library card- so he’d never gotten those little notes asking for books back.

Yet there it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

Mr. H. Potter  
The Cupboard Under the Stairs  
#4 Privet Drive  
Little Whinging, Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of a deep ivory parchment, and the address was written in an emerald-green ink. There was no stamp- no postage at all. Turning the envelope over, hands trembling, Harry saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake all surrounding a large letter H.

“Hurry up, boy!” Uncle Vernon shouted from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” He laughed at his own joke.

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at the letter in his hand. He handed over the bill and postcard to Uncle Vernon, sat back down, and slowly began to open the envelope. Uncle Vernon tore open the bill, grunted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.

“Marge’s ill,” He said heavily to Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny whelk-”

“Dad!” said Dudley suddenly. “Dad, Harry’s got a letter!”

Harry was just unfolding his letter at this point, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was ripped from his hands by Uncle Vernon.

“That’s mine!” Harry protested, trying to snatch it back.

“Who’d be writing to you?” Uncle Vernon sneered, shaking open the letter one handed and squinting at it. His face went red- then green- then faded to a greyish white pallor like old porridge. “P-Petunia!” He stuttered out.

Dudley tried to make a grab for the letter, but Uncle Vernon held it too high, towards Aunt Petunia.

She took it curiously and began scanning the page. She too went very pale, other hand raising to her throat as she struggled for words. “Vernon- oh goodness- _Vernon_!”

They stared at each other, both completely ignoring the two children in the room. Dudley wasn’t used to being ignored like Harry was, and gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.

“I want to read it!” He said

“ _I_ want to read it,” said Harry furiously, “as it’s _mine_.”

“Get out, both of you.” Hissed Aunt Petunia, snatching the letter from Uncle Vernon and stuffing it back into its envelope.

Harry didn’t move. “I WANT MY LETTER!” he shouted.

“Let me see it!” Screeched Dudley.

“OUT!” Roared Uncle Vernon, and he grabbed both Harry and Dudley by the backs of their shirts and tossed them into the hall- slamming the kitchen door before either was even back on their feet.

Harry and Dudley had a furious but silent fight over who got to listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, with his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between the floor and the door.

“Petunia,” Uncle Vernon was saying quietly, “Look at the address- how could they know where he sleeps? You don’t think they’re watching the house, do you?”

“Watching,” Aunt Petunia echoed “spying maybe- they could e-even be following us.” She muttered. “What should we do? Write back? Tell them we’ve no interest in-”

Uncle Vernon’s shiny black shoes paced back and forth across the kitchen. “No.” he said finally. “No, we ignore them. If they don’t get an answer they’ll give up- yes - we won’t do _anything_...”

“Vernon, I don’t think-”

“We won’t have one in the house, Petunia! Didn’t we swear when we took him we’d keep that nonsense out of it? That we’d stamp it out of him?”

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he’d never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.

“Where’s my letter?” Harry asked, the moment Uncle Vernon had opened the door. “Who’s writing to me?”

“No one.” Said Uncle Vernon gruffly “It was addressed to you by mistake. I have burned it.”

“It wasn’t a mistake!” Harry said angrily, “It had my cupboard on it!”

“Quiet!” Yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple spiders shrunk further into their webs. He took a few deep breaths and then forced a smile- which looked quite painful to Harry. “Er— yes, boy- Harry- about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been talking, and you’re really getting a bit big for it. We think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.”

“What? Why?” said Harry.

“Don’t ask questions!” snapped his uncle. “Take your things upstairs, now. The room has already been cleaned up.” The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually only Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and belongings that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom.

It only took Harry one trip upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He sat down and looked around at what remained of the toys here. Nearly everything was broken. The month-old video camera was sitting atop a small working tank that Dudley had driven over the next-door neighbors dog; in the corner was Dudley’s first television set, which had a large hole in the screen from where he’d put his foot through it when his favourite program was cancelled; there was a large birdcage that had once held a parrot before Dudley swapped it at school for an air rifle, which was up on a shelf never having been used.

Other shelves were full of books, mostly untouched and gathering dust.

Downstairs, Harry could hear the sounds of Dudley bawling at his mother, “I don’t want him in there... I need that room... Make him get out...”

Harry shut the door and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he would have given _anything_ to be up here. Now though, he’d rather be back in his cupboard with his letter than up here without it.

Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet.

Dudley seemed to be in shock. He’d screamed, whacked his parents with his Smelting stick, made himself sick on purpose, thrown the broken video camera through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn’t have his room back.

Harry was thinking about this time yesterday, wishing he could go back and open the letter in the hall. His aunt and uncle kept exchanging dark looks. When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon made Dudley get it.

They heard him smacking the wall with his Smelting stick the whole way to the door, then he shouted, “There’s another one! ‘Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, #4 Privet-”

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt up and ran down the hall, Harry at his heels. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the floor to get the letter away from him, which was made harder for the fact that Harry had leapt onto his back in an attempt to get it first. After a minute of confused fighting in which everyone was hit with the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, out of breath, with Harry’s letter clutched in one hand.

“Go to your bedrooms- both of you.” He wheezed, looking absolutely furious.

Harry paced round and round his new room. Someone knew he had been moved out of his cupboard, and they knew he hadn’t received his first letter. _Surely_ that meant they’d try again? This time, he decided to make sure they didn’t fail. He had a plan. The repaired alarm clock rang at six o’clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly before it woke anyone, and rolled fully clothed out of bed. He couldn’t risk waking the Dursleys. He crept downstairs without turning on any of the lights. He would wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive, and get the letters for number four before they could even reach the door.

His heart seemed to pound abnormally loud as he made his way across the dark hall towards the front door—

Harry leapt into the air; he’d stepped on something big and squishy on the doormat— something _alive_!

Lights clicked on and to his horror Harry realized that the big squishy something had been his uncle’s face. Uncle Vernon had been asleep on the floor in front of the door in a sleeping bad, clearly making sure Harry didn’t didn’t do exactly what he’d been trying to. He shouted at Harry for near an hour, and then told him to go make a cup of tea.

Harry shuffled miserably into the kitchen, and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived right into Uncle Vernon’s lap. Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink.

“I want-” he began, but Uncle Vernon was already tearing the letters to pieces.

Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day.

He stayed home and nailed the mail slot shut.

“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, “if they can’t deliver, they’ll give up!”

“I don’t think that will work, Vernon.”

“Oh, these people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re not like you and me.” said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the fruitcake slice Aunt Petunia had brought him.

On Friday, over a dozen letters arrived for Harry. They’d been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few had even been forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom. Uncle Vernon stayed home again. After burning all the letters, he got out the hammer again and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so nobody could go out. He hummed “Tiptoe through the Tulips” as he worked, and jumped at small noises.

Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Roughly thirty letters to Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of tow dozen eggs, and inside the milk bottle that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the kitchen window. While Uncle Vernon made furious phone calls to the post office and local dairy trying to find someone to complain to. Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her blender.

“Who could want to talk to you this badly?” Dudley asked Harry in amazement.

Harry wished he knew.

When Sunday morning rolled around, Uncle Vernon was looking tired and quite ill, but happy. “No post on Sundays,” he reminded them all cheerfully as he sat down at the breakfast table. “No damn letters _today_ —”

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. Not moments later, forty or fifty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets.

The Dursleys ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one.

“Out! OUT!” Uncle Vernon seized Harry and Dudley both around the waist and threw them into the hall. Aunt Petunia followed out with her arms over her head. Uncle Vernon slammed the kitchen door shut, the sound of the letters still coming, bouncing off the walls and floor.

“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but tugging so furiously at his mustache that hairs were coming out. “I want you all back here in five minutes, ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack clothes. No arguments!” he looked so dangerous with half his mustache torn out that no one dared argue.

Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the newly unboarded front door and loaded into the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat, clutching a lump on his head where his father had hit him for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag.

They drove.

And they drove.

Even Aunt Petunia didn’t dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon took a sharp turn and drove in the opposite direction for a while.

“Shake ‘em off...” he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn’t stop all day, not even for food or a bathroom. By nightfall, Dudley was in real tears. He’d never had such a horrible day in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five of his favourite television programs, and he’d not gotten to play on his computer all day.

Harry, who was more used to a day without food was not in as bad a state, but the long car ride had still left him thirsty and tired.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored, but Harry stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill and staring down at the lights of passing cars...

They ate stale cornflakes and tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day.

They had just finished when the hotel manager came over to their table.

“‘Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? I only got about a hundred of these at the front desk.” She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

Mr. H. Potter  
Room 17  
Railview Hotel, Cokeworth

Harry made a grab for the letter, but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand back to the table. The woman just stared.

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room.

“Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to hear her.

Exactly what he was looking for he didn’t say, and none of them dared ask. He drove into the middle of a forest, got out to look around, shook his head, and off they went again. This happened several times, in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a very tall parking garage.

“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley whimpered to Aunt Petunia late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked on the coast, locked everyone in the car, and vanished. It had begun raining some time ago, large heavy drops that hammered the roof of the car.

Dudley sniffled. “It’s Monday,” he said. “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television...”

Monday... This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday— and he could usually count on Dudley to know what day it was, because of television— then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry’s eleventh birthday.

Of course, his birthdays were never exactly fun- last year the Dursleys had given him a coat hanger and a pair of old socks. Still, you weren’t eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon returned and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn’t answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d bought.

“Found the perfect place!” he said “Come on! Everyone out!” It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a very large rock far out in the sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there would be no television there.

“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon with glee, clapping his hands together. “And this gentleman has kindly agreed to lend us his boat!” A toothless old man came shuffling up to them, pointing with a grin to an old rowboat bobbing in the choppy water below them.

“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon, “so all aboard!” it was freezing in the boat. Icy sea water sprayed up at them, and rain crept down their necks as the wind whipped their faces.

After what seemed like many miserable hours, they reached the rock where the shack was. Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, let the way into the thing. Inside was horrible, it smelled of seaweed and old fish, the wind howled through gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire, but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.

“Could use some of those letters now, eh?” he said, none of this seeming to dampen his good mood.

Clearly he thought nobody could reach them out here in the storm. Harry agreed, but the thought didn’t cheer him up at all. As night fell, the storm raged and intensified, spray from the waves spattered the hut and fierce winds set the windows shaking.

Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed in the second room, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of stone floor he could, curled up under the thinnest and most ragged blanket.

The storm just seemed to grow stronger as the night went on, and Harry couldn’t sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s snores were drowned out by the low rolling thunder that had begun close to midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his wrist, told Harry he’d be eleven in ten minutes time.

He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if with everything else going on, if the Dursleys would even remember. Wondering where the writer of his letters was now.

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. Maybe the walls or the roof. He hoped they wouldn’t fall in, although he may be warmer if they did.

Four minutes. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they returned he’d be able to sneak one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea? Slapping hard against the rock and making that crashing sound?

And, two minutes left, what was that funny crunching noise? Could the rock be crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds... Twenty. Ten. Nine- maybe he’d wake Dudley, just to annoy him.

Three..

Two...

One-

BOOM.

The whole shack shook and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door.

Someone was outside.

Knocking to come in.


	4. The Keeper of Keys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spite!  
> Let's go!

BOOM.

They knocked again.

Dudley jerked awake this time. “Where’s the cannon?” he said, clearly still half asleep.

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands— which must have been what was in the long thin package he had brought with them.

“Who’s there!” he shouted “I warn you, I’m armed!”

There was a pause, then—

SMASH!

The door was hit so hard that it came clean off its hinges and landed flat on the floor.

A giant man was stood in the doorway. His face was almost completely hidden by long, scraggly hair, and a wild beard- but you could make out his eyes, glinting black but somehow _warm_. The giant squeezed his way through the place where the door had been, stooping so that he didn’t hit his head on the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and slotted it back into the frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped back down a little.

Turning back, the giant man spoke: “Couldn’t make us a cup o’ tea, could you? It’s not been an easy journey...” He made his way to the soda where Dudley sat, frozen. “Budge up, you.” said the stranger.

Dudley yelped and ran to hide behind his parents.

“An’ here you are, Harry!” said the giant. Harry looked up into the wild face and saw the shiny black eyes were crinkled in a smile. “Last time I saw you, you were only a baby,” he said “Look a lot like you’re dad, ‘cept the eyes. You’ve got your mum’s eyes.”

Harry couldn’t find any words, his throat seemed to have abruptly closed up.

Uncle Vernon made a sort of rasping noise and then: “I demand you leave at once, sir!” He said sharply “You are breaking and entering!”

“Ah, shut up, Dursley.” said the giant, reaching over the back of the sofa and jerking the gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands. He easily bent the barrel back onto itself, as though it were made of rubber, and threw it into the far corner of the room.

Uncle Vernon sounded as though he was choking on something.

“Anyway— Harry,” said the giant, turning his back on the Dursleys, “happy birthday! I’ve got summat here for you— might’ve sat on it at some point, but I reckon it’ll taste alright.” from an inside pocket of his great shaggy coat, the giant man pulled a slightly squashed box.

Harry accepted it with shaking hands, slowly opening the lid. Inside was a large, nicely frosted chocolate cake with _Happy Birthday Harry_ written on it in green icing. Harry looked up at the giant- meaning to say thank you, but the words go lost somewhere between his brain and his tongue so he said: “Who are you?”

The giant chuckled. “True, haven’t introduced myself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.” He offered Harry one enormous hand, and practically shook Harry’s whole arm. “Now, how about that tea then, eh?” he said, rubbing his hands together. His gaze dropped to the empty grate and shriveled chip bags, he snorted.

Bending down over the fireplace, nobody could see what he was doing, but when he drew back a second later there was a roaring fire there. It filled the damp hut with wavering light, and Harry felt warmth wash over him as though he’d sunk into a pleasantly hot bath.

The giant sat back down, and the sofa sagged under him as he started to pull various things from his coat pockets. Out came: a copper kettle, a pack of sausage links, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bag of loose tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smells of sizzling sausage. Nobody spoke while the giant worked, but as he tipped the first six fat, juicy, and slightly burnt sausages into one of the mugs, Dudley fidgeted a little.

Uncle Vernon huffed and said sharply “Don’t touch anything he gives you, Dudley.”

The giant chuckled again. “This ain’t for your son, Dursley- don’t worry.” He passed the mug of sausages to Harry, who was so hungry that they tasted better than anything he’d had in his life.

Still though, he couldn’t take his eyes off the giant, head swimming with confusion. When it became apparent that nobody was about to explain anything, he said, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t really know who you are...”

The giant drained one of the mugs of tea in a single gulp and said, “Call me Hagrid.” he said, “everyone does. And like I told you, I’m Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts— You’ll know all about Hogwarts o’ course.”

“Er— no,” said Harry, and Hagric looked shocked. “Sorry,” Harry added quickly.

“Sorry?” asked Hagrid, turning to glare at the Dursleys in disbelief. “It’s them that should be sorry! I knew you weren’t gettin’ your letters but I never thought- for cryin’ out loud! Did you never wonder where your parents learned it all?”

“All what?” asked Harry.

“ALL WHAT?” Boomed Hagrid, and the Dursleys shrunk back against the wall. “Now wait jus’ one second!” He had leapt to his feet, in his anger he seemed to take up the whole hut. “Do you mean to tell me,” he growled at the Dursleys, “that this boy- _this boy_!— hasn’ been told nothing? About - about ANYTHING?”

Harry thought this was a bit rude. He had been to school- and his marks weren’t bad. “I know some things,” he said quietly “I can, you know, do math and stuff.”

But Hagrid waved one massive hand and said “About our world I mean. Your world. My world. Your _parents’_ world.”

“What world?” Hagrid looked ready to explode at that.

“DURSLEY!” He shouted.

Uncle Vernon had gone very pale, and whispered something that sounded like “Mimblewimble...”

Hagrid looked wildly back at Harry. “But you must know about your mom and dad,” he said. “I mean- they’re famous, _you’re_ famous.”

“What?” Harry said “My— my parents weren’t famous... were they?” he looked over to his aunt an uncle in confusion.

“You don’ know...” Hagrid ran his fingers through his hair, fixing a bewildered stare on Harry. “You don’ know what you are?” he said finally.

Aunt Petunia found her voice this time. “Stop!” she shouted, with more power in her voice than Harry could ever remember hearing. “Stop it now!”

Braver people than Petunia and Vernon Dursley would have shrunk under the furious look Hagrid now gave them. When he spoke, every word, every syllable shook with rage. “You never told him? Never gave him the letter Dumbledore left for him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it! And you’ve kept it from him all these years?”

“Kept _what_ from me?” asked Harry, a sense of eagerness beginning to grow in him.

“STOP! I FORBID YOU!” Yelled Uncle Vernon, who looked to be panicking.

“Ah go boil your heads, the lot of you.” said Hagrid. “Harry- you’re a wizard.”

There was a long and heavy silence in the hut. Only the storm outside could be heard, howling wind and crashing waves.

“- I - a what?” gasped Harry finally, when his breath returned.

“A wizard of course,” said Hagrid, finally sitting back on the sofa, which creaked and sank lower than before, “a thumpin’ good one two I’d guess, once you’ve been trained up a bit. With a mum and dad like yours, what else would you be.” He paused, digging in his coat once more “And I reckon it’s about time you got to read your letter.”

Harry stretched out his hands at last to take the heavy envelope, addressed in emerald green to:

Mr. H. Potter  
The Floor  
Hut-on-the-Rock  
The Sea

He pulled out the letter and read:

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, Internation Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr. Potter,_   
_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1st._

_We await your owl by no later than July 31st._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress_

Questions exploded inside Harry’s head, so many that he couldn’t decide which to ask first.

After a few minutes he stammered out, “W-what does it mean, they await my owl?”

“Gallopin’ Gordons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his forehead with so much force it could knock over a horse, and from yet another pocket he drew out an owl- a live, very ruffled looking owl- a long crow feather quill, and a roll of parchment. With his tongue just poking out from his teeth, he scribbled a note that Harry read upside down:

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_   
_Given Harry his letter, taking him to buy his things tomorrow. Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well._   
_Hagrid_

Hagrid rolled up the note and gave it to the owl, who clamped it hard in its beak, made his way to the door, and tossed the owl out into the raging storm outside. As he came back to sit down, it struck Harry that he had done this as though it was as normal as talking on the telephone. He then realized his mouth was hanging open and quickly shut it.

“Where were we?” said Hagrid- but at that moment, Uncle Vernon seemed to have regained use of his voice. Still ashen and furious looking, he moved into the firelight- the closest any of the Dursleys had gotten to Hagrid since his arrival.

“He’s not going.” Uncle Vernon said.

Hagrid grunted out a laugh. “I’d love to see a great Muggle like you stop him,” he said.

“What’s a muggle?” asked Harry.

“A Muggle is non-magic folk, like your aunt an’ uncle.” Said Hagrid “Bad luck on your part- growin’ up without any wizards about.”

“We swore when we took him in we’d put a stop to all this rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon waspishly, “that we’d stamp it out! _Wizard_ , indeed!”

“You _knew_?” Harry asked, gaze flying between his aunt and uncle. “You knew I was- I’m a wizard?”

“Knew!” Shrieked Aunt Petunia from where she still stood, Dudley behind her. “Of course we knew! How could you not be, with Lily being what she was? Your letter looks exactly the same as hers did when she disappeared off to that- that school for _freaks_! Coming home every summer with her pickets stuffed with frog spawn and bone dust— turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was— what all of this lot are— a freak! But for our parents, she could do no wrong! It was Lily this- Lily that- they were so _proud_ to have a witch in the family!” She stopped and shuddered, though she seemed nowhere close to stopping- this rant sounded as though she had been holding it in for years. “Then she met Potter at school- and they left and got married and had _you_ \- how could you not be just the same, just as strange as— as abnormal— and then, as though she hadn’t done enough damage, she went and got herself _blown up_ , and we got landed with you!”

Harry felt very faint all of the sudden, the color and warmth draining from his face. As soon as he found his voice, he said: “Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash!”

“A CAR CRASH?” Roared Hagrid, leaping so angrily to his feet that all three Dursleys scrambled even further back, Uncle Vernon tripping over himself a bit in the process. “How could a car crash kill Lily an’ James! That’s an outrage! A scandal! Harry ought to have been raised knowing his own story when every child in our world knows it! Knows him!”

“But why?” Harry urged “What happened?”

As quickly as the anger had appeared, it faded into anxiety. “I never expected-” he started in a low worried voice. “-I had no idea. When Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin’ hold of you, how much you might not know- an’ Harry I don’t know if I’m the right person to tell you...”

“Hagrid,” Harry began, very quietly, expecting Hagrid’s next words to be a denial.

“-Someone’s got to tell you— you can’t go off to Hogwarts _not_ knowin’.” Hagrid said, throwing a diry look at the Dursleys as he did. “Best you know as much as I can tell— mind, I don’t know everythin’ and there’s a great deal of mystery in parts of it...” He sat back down and stared into the fire for a few seconds. “It begins, ‘suppose, with— with a person called, it’s incredible you don’t know his name- everyone in our world knows.”

“Who?”

“Well- see I don’t like sayin’ the name if I can help it. Nobody does.”

“Why not?”

“Gulpin’ Gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared! Blimey this is difficult... See, there was this wizard who went bad- as bad as you could go. And then worse, worse than worse.” Hagrid gulped, but no further words came out.

“Could you write the name?” Harry suggested.

“Nah- can’t spell it. Just a moment- it’s— _Voldemort_.” Hagrid shuddered a little. “Don’t make me say it again. Anyway- about twenty years ago now, he started gathering followers. Got plenty of them, too— some were afraid, some wanted to share his power, ‘cause he was gettin’ plenty of power. It was dark days, Harry. Didn’t know who to trust, didn’t dare get friendly with strangers... Terrible things happened. He was takin’ over. The people who stood up to him— any of them— he just killed them an’ moved on. It was horrible. One of the only safe places was Hogwarts- since Dumbledore was the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn’t dare trying to take the school, not then, anyway.”

He paused, looking like he might start tearing up. “Now, your mum an’ dad were as good a witch an’ wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an’ girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the mystery is why You-Know-Who never tried to turn them over to his side before... But he probably knew they were too close to Dumbledore for that. Maybe he thought he could persuade them... Maybe he just wanted them outta his way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in Godric’s Hollow where they lived, on Halloween ten years ago. You were just a year old. He came an’- an’ he—” Hagrid stopped suddenly, pulled out a very large spotted handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly. “Sorry,” He mumbled “But it’s just- knew your mum an’ dad, couldn’t find nicer people... anyway. You-Know-Who killed them. An’ then— an’ then he tried to kill you, too. Wanted to make a clean job of it I’d reckon. Or maybe he just liked to kill by then. But he couldn’t do it.”

Hagrid looked back from the fire to Harry, and pointed at the scar on his forehead. “Never wondered how you got that mark? That was no ordinary cut- that’s what happens when a powerful, evil curse touches you. Took care of your parents, an’ your house, even— but it didn’t work on you. _That’s_ why you’re famous, Harry. No one ever lived after You-Know-Who decided to kill them, no one except you. An’ he’d killed loads of the best witches an’ wizards of the age- The McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts— an’ you were only a baby- but you lived.”

Something very painful was happening in Harry’s mind.

As Hagrid’s story finished out, he saw again that blinding flash of green light, more clearly than he’d ever been able to recall it— and something else, for the first time in his life: it was accompanied by a high, cruel laugh.

Hagrid was watching him sad and silent, tears still shining in his black eyes. “I took you from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore’s orders- an’ brought you to this lot...”

“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon.

Harry jumped at the sound, he’d completely forgotten the Dursleys were there.

Once more, it seemed his uncle had regained his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were clenched, a familiar vein popping at his temple. “Now, listen here boy-” he snarled, “I accept there’s something strange about you, lord knows beating it out of you didn’t work- and all this about your parents- well they were freaks, no denying it, and the world is better off without them in it.” Aunt Petunia shifted behind him, looking as though she was going to speak, but Uncle Vernon kept going: “ _Asked_ for it, getting mixed up with wizarding types— just what I expected, always knew they’d come to a sticky end—”

Hagrid leapt to his feet once more, drawing out a battered pink umbrella from his coat. He pointed it at Uncle Vernon like a sword and said, “I’m warnin’ you now, Dursley- one more word...” In danger of being skewered on the end of an umbrella, Uncle Vernon’s courage failed again, and he flattened himself back against the wall. “That’s better,” said Hagrid, sitting back down with a heavy sigh.

Harry still had questions begging to be asked, hundreds of them.

“But what happened to Voldemort?” Hagrid flinched when he said the name, so he added “Sorry- I mean- You-Know-Who?”

“Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried to kill you. Makes you even more famous- some say he died, broken by trying to kill you. Codswallop I think, dunno if he was even human enough left to die. Some say he’s still out there, biding time, but I don’t believe that either. People on his side came back to ours, see, some of them came out of trances and the like. Don’t reckon they could’ve if he was comin’ back.” Hagrid said, “Most of us reckon he’s still out there, powerless, too weak to carry on, but still alive- or as close to alive as he could get to dead. Somethin’ in you finished him that night, Harry. Dunno what it was- somethin’ he hadn’t counted on an’ it stumped him.” Hagric looked at Harry with an intense warmth and— respect? But Harry could only feel small and confused- quite sure there had been a horrible mistake.

A wizard? Him? How could that possibly be true?

He’d spent his entire life being clouted by Dudley, bullied by his aunt and uncle; if he was really magic, why hadn’t they been turned into toads or snakes every time they locked him in his cupboard? If he was powerful enough to defeat the greatest sorcerer in the world, how had Dudley always been able to kick him about like a football?

“Hagrid,” he said quietly, “I think there must be some mistake. I don’t think I can be a wizard.”

To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled. “Not a wizard, are you? Never made somethin’ happen when you were scared? Or angry? Somethin’ you couldn’t explain?”

Harry looked into the fire, thinking about every odd thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle furious with him. They’d all happened when he, Harry, had been upset or angry... Chased by Dudley’s gang, he’d somehow made it out of their reach... Dreading a school day with his hair sheared to nothing- it had grown back... and the very last time Dudley had hit him, hadn’t he gotten revenge? Even without trying or realizing it?

Hadn’t he freed the boa constrictor?

Harry looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was now beaming down at him.

“See?” said Hagrid. “Harry Potter, not a wizard- just you wait, you’ll be right famous at school.”

Aunt Petunia huffed in the corner, bringing the attention back to the Dursleys. “Haven’t we said he’s not going?” She snapped. “He’s going to Stonewall High, and he’ll be grateful for it. I remember what’s in those letters- he’d need all sorts of rubbish— spell books and cauldrons and—”

“If he wants to go, you an’ your idiot husband won’t stop him,” growled Hagrid. “Stop Lily an’ James Potter’s son going to Hogwarts? Mad. His name’s been down ever since he was born. He’s off to the finest school of witchcraft in the country. Seven years there an’ he won’t know himself. He’ll be with young ‘uns of his own sort, an’ he’ll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts has ever had— Albus Dumbled—”

“I WILL NOT PAY FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!” Boomed Uncle Vernon.

This, it seemed, was the final straw. Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head. “NEVER,” He thindered, “- INSULT - ALBUS - DUMBLEDORE- IN FRONT OF ME!” He brought the umbrella swinging down through the air to point at Dudley, who was not concealed at the moment by either of his parents— there was a flash of bright violet light, a sound like a firecracker, and a sharp squeal as the next moment Dudley had clapped one hand over his bottom and the other to the side of his head, screeching in pain.

When he turned away from them in his bouncing, Harry saw a curly pig tail poking through his trousers, and what looked like floppy pink pigs ears underneath blond hair. Uncle Vernon roared and dove for Dudley, pulling him into the other room with Aunt Petunia close behind them, slamming the door.

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and ran his free hand through his beard. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he said ruefully, “did it wrong, anyhow- was tryin’ to turn him into a pig, but it only went partways...” He glanced sideways at Harry through bushy brows, “Be grateful if you didn’t mention that at Hogwarts,” he said. “I’m er— not supposed to do magic, strictly speakin’. I was allowed to do a bit for followin’ you, an’ gettin’ your letters to you— one of the reasons I was keen to take the job.”

“Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” asked Harry.

“Oh, well— I was at Hogwarts myself, but I— I got expelled in my third year. They snapped my wand an’ everythin’. But Dumbledore kept me on as Gamekeeper anyway. Great man, Dumbledore.”

“Why were you expelled?”

“It’s gettin’ late and we’ve got lots to do tomorrow,” said Hagrid loudly. “Gotta get up to town, get all your books an’ that.” He took off his thick shaggy coat and threw it to Harry, who buckled a little under the weight. “You can kip under that, don’t mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I still got some dormice in once of the pockets...”


End file.
